


Writer's Block

by chocochurros



Category: Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-11
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:51:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chocochurros/pseuds/chocochurros





	Writer's Block

She was told she had a talent in manipulating words;  
She’d happily bend and twist and shape them up to make her voice well-heard.  
They told her she was beautiful and her words flowed like morning light  
And she loved and reveled in it… Til one day it no longer seemed quite right.  
Suddenly, out of the blue, nothing came out well anymore, at least not in her eyes;  
She told them it was writer’s block, not a big deal, and hopefully not a lie.  
She shared old poems while new ones festered, rotting and unloved -   
Something felt so wrong when her heart couldn’t spill out free like the feathered wings she’d once taken such easy advantage of.  
The pencil was her friend - how had their dancing conversations lost their touch?  
Had she abused her power? Or just poured out too much?  
She looked over all those old, familiar works, not seeming special or unique.   
It had been so easy and beautiful; now the wording all seemed weak.  
Clumsily she’d handled it all, not graceful like she’d thought.   
And yet she couldn’t make anything better now; and yet write something new she certainly could not.  
Words had always been the one true thing upon which she could rely,  
Yet now they slipped through unskilled fingers, soaring forever past and by.  
They told her, still, of talent, and of promise, and of skill,   
Yet she couldn’t believe them anymore now. Her passion had been killed.   
Desperately she latched onto anything good she wrote before,  
But her doubts tore them to dust, sinking her deeper into an abyss of crumpled attempts while the others told her she could soar.  
The swirling edifices of stars and moons which she’d loved so much to teach  
Were suddenly, inexplicably, frustratingly barely outside her mortal’s reach.  
So much trapped inside her skull, no longer able to pour out;  
It made her wonder if she’d ever really grasped those precious stars so easily, without doubt.  
What scared her most was that she was so young when her calling beckoned from too far away;   
What had once been just so effortless was now near impossible to say.  
It felt like she was trapped within a silent, wordless vault,   
Trying to find something perfect that her words would somehow unlock.  
Had her talent ever been real? Or had she simply been told that out of pity?  
She could no longer be sure of anything now that truths all came so gritty.  
The scariest thing for an athlete is feeling you’ve lost your touch,  
But for an artist and a writer, it’s just as terrifying when a mere couplet is too much.  
The most petrifying thing is that you’re isolated in your fear,   
While crowds smile and cheer and have no idea the poems they exalt are garbage, can’t you hear?!  
Am I crazy? Am I not? Am I just waking up?  
These questions plague the writer’s mind in the shadows where they erupt.  
It’s praise you don’t deserve, it makes you long to rip the old words back down -   
But it’s too late for that, they think it’s great, when the thought of it being public makes you want to drown.  
It’s not good, you can do so much better, so why must they praise it as if it’s your best work?   
It’s awful - and yet you couldn’t change a letter - and yet amidst their kudos, you’re not sure why you’re irked.  
Maybe it’s because you wish that they’d wake up to the awful truth,   
Or maybe it’s because you hate the thought that now it actually is the best that you could do.  
And yet they tell her she’s improved.  
Why was she so embarrassed, when there was nothing that she could think of to disprove?  
Pensive and confused, she sat at home and picked up the familiar pencil,  
Determined to prove herself wrong and give that herd something worthy to remember.  
That’s where she is now, relieved and hopeful, finishing up this venting poem  
Just like so many sweet, nostalgic others, and once again, the page feels like her home.


End file.
